


i'm not a child and (flowers turn to fire)

by solitariusvirtus, tenten_d



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: +Pictures, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Pre-Canon, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4303200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenten_d/pseuds/tenten_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five places Rhaegar Targaryen could have taken Lyanna Stark and the one place he did take her to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm not a child and (flowers turn to fire)

**Author's Note:**

> Pointless really. I'm just trying King's rule of 13.
> 
> Title from O+S' Flowers Turn to Fire

_(the tourney)_

She cradles the shield like a mother would a child, her eyes narrowing in distrust and quiet rage and Rhaegar thinks that this is the single most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Lyanna’s whole frame jumps at the shock of his gloved hand touching her shoulder.

This strong woman, this beautiful girl. There is no one else like her. There is no one who does understand. He thinks of feasts and harps and tears as her lips quiver and drag downwards. “’Tis not very well done, Your Grace, to make a grab for helpless maidens.”

He wants to laugh. She is not helpless. “I thought she-wolves would not so easily give in.” She scowls at his teasing.

“I have not,” the maiden assures him, fingers turning white with the strength of her clutch. “I never give in.”

He tugs her down from her seat upon the saddle and tries not to wince when she childishly and entirely knowingly slams her foot into his. Her murmur of an apology fails to convince him of any sort of contrition.

Rhaegar motions for the shield. The girl shakes her head obstinately. “How do I know you shan’t take it to the King?”

“I’ve brought you here, haven’t I?” His question is met with a wall of silence. “Lyanna Stark, had I wanted you harmed, shield or no shield, you would have been.”

Obstinate but not stupid. She glowers at him, but her grip grows lax. He pries the shield from her hands and straps it to his back so he can climb the tree faster. He hangs it upon the highest branch he feels comfortable reaching and comes back down to find the she-wolf prowling at the base of the tree.

It is she who jumps at him, soft lips pressed to his cheek.

 

* * *

( _the crypts)_

Her light laughter is lost in the quiet darkness as they stumble down the stairs together, arm in arm, like two children. Rhaegar has one hand against the wall mostly to keep both of them from falling down and breaking their necks. Lyanna’s foot slips in her haste and he feels the pull of her body but gently drags her back to him. She’s always so reckless.

And then it’s she who leads the way, out into the courtyard, taking him past tall, dark shadows into a soft mound of earth and ice and stone. “They won’t ever suspect,” she says breathlessly.

There is something morbid and fitting about lying with her among the remains of kings and great lords. There is no light, but they don’t need any. Hands and lips and bodies prove more than enough and even in the dark Rhaegar can trace even the faintest of jolts.

Her head tilts back just so and her fingernails bite into his shoulders at the first amalgamation. He can imagine the way tendons and flesh quiver and the soft, breathy moan of pleasure-pain, exhaled inside this cairn, sears itself into his mind, trickling through his frame all the way to his soul.

There aren’t any ghosts here. Aside from the beatings of their hearts, twins in this seemingly everlasting retreat, there is nothing.

A flash of moonlight pierces the dark shroud covering them, for just a moment, and Rhaegar swears he can hear bones jangling. Lyanna smiles up at him.

 

* * *

 

_(dragonstone)_

The Wyvern stands before them. Her back is pressed against the merciless stone wall, skirts hitched high around her waist, hips tilting in a welcoming manner. The wind howls in his ears and Rhaegar barely hears it over the sound of his frantic heartbeat. Lyanna’s fingers twist his hair in knots, sliding to the nape of his neck. She tsks at his impatience, but pushes against him.

“Tell me again,” she commands in a soft voice. His mind searches for the words. “Come now, tell me.”

“You little she-devil,” he murmurs in the hollow between shoulder and neck. “You’ll be the death of me.”

“You if you do not tell me,” she laughs, nails scraping softly against his scalp.

So he tells her, in High Valyrian, quite explicitly, something that ought to make her blush far harder. She doesn’t know all the words, but some she has committed to memory by now and he feels the sweet clench of her body. Her spine arches, pressing her further into him. As if there is anything separating them.

“One of these days,” she murmurs after coming down from her height, “I shall ask you for an exact translation.” She pushes against his shoulders and he lets her slide down his body, the skirts falling down to cover her.

Lyanna’s face flushes with realisation. “You prat,” she says a moment later, as if remembering something. “I do believe you ought not to trouble yourself with trying the door to my bedchamber this evening.”

He laughs and lets her palm connect with his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

_(summerhall)_

Her fingers trail along the blackened walls as she walks the expanse of what used to be the main hall. Rhaegar watches her naked form glide about and wonders if in another lifetime he might find her again, wrap his arms around her and never let her go.

There is a sense of foreboding.

He was born here. He wonders if she knows. Lyanna looks at him over her shoulder, a coy smile plying on her lips. “I think this must have been wonderful when it stood high.” She points out one of the towers with the collapsed roof. “There is a similar structure in Winterfell,” she tells him, turning around and walking back to him slowly. “They call it the broken tower.”

He listens to her speak, his heart swelling ever so slight when she presses a bare shoulder to his arm. “Do you think you might ever rebuild this?”

She lies back onto the soft earth, looking at the dark skies adorned with stars.

“Would that please you?” he hears himself asking in a voice much too burdened with emotion.

Lyanna looks at him then, a question shining in her eyes. “I thought it might please you. Our child could actually come visit the place.” Again, she smiles. “I could live here.”

She likes the open space, And Rhaegar enjoys her enjoyment.

“I will see to it then.” Her eyes return to the stars.

They lie beneath the stars together, quietly. What else is there to say that needs be spoken in words?

 

* * *

 

_(king’s landing)_

She runs after him, barefoot and dishevelled, skirts raised indecently high. “Rhaegar, please.” Her voice tugs at his heartstrings. “Rhaegar, he is my brother.” He can hear the thickness of it, and wonders if she cries. He doesn’t dare look back. “Rhaegar!”

What he doesn’t expect is for her to tackle him, right there, in the middle of the hallway, Elia somewhere at the other end, holding Aegon to her bosom. But she does and for a moment he loses his footing, sending both of them skidding towards the wall. His shoulder does not thank him.

Lyanna has grabbed onto him, fingers digging into his overcoat. “Don’t kill him. If you love me, don’t kill him.”

“His words are treason,” he speaks back to her slowly. “Better a clean death on the battlefield than one at the hands of my father.”

Her eyes are begging him and, damn it all, he does want to listen. “I make no promises.” He presses a kiss to her forehead and pushes her away, trying to find something that will save them all.

He walks away and forces himself not to look back until he’s reached Elia. His wife‘s dark gaze is trained on the she-wolf, but she speaks to him. “Your armour is ready, Your Grace.”

“Elia, take care of her.” She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t move. Rhaegar dares just a glance towards Lyanna. Her troubled face nearly undoes him.

After, adorned in his armour, the rides towards Brandon Stark, lance at the ready.

 

* * *

+( _tower of joy)_

Her slight frame slips through his embrace easily, her elbow connecting painfully with his side. “Your bastard,” her voice rings in his ears as she turns away from his presumably in search of some weapon. What she does get her hands on is the small knife they use to peel the apples. For one moment, Rhaegar's whole body locks tightly, thinking that she might jump at him. What she does, however, is much, much worse. “Shall I take someone dear of yours too?” she screams, plunging the knife downwards.

Instinctively his hand shoots out to stop her. The blade pierces skin and bone with a sickening sound. And Lyanna looks at him with wide, wide eyes filled with tears and despair. They stand there, for an eternity. It’s a sound from beyond the door that finally jolts them awake.

Lyanna looks down at her work. “He was my brother,” she says, her voice quiet. “He was my brother. And I loved him.”

Rhaegar pulls the knife out of his palm with a pained hiss and throws it to the ground. He wonders if she’ll scramble after it and take better aim this time. But Lyanna doesn’t. Blood gushes from the wound. Yet he cannot look away from the she-wolf.

“I hate him. And I hate you. I hate all of you,” comes her own hiss. “I hate all of you.”

His uninjured hand pulls at her shoulder and doesn’t stop even as she tries to pry it loose. “Don’t. I don’t want comfort.”

“I know.”

Blood trickles to the ground.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frankly I think I like the _king's landing_ one best.


End file.
